Bird's Eye View
by theyleaveshadows
Summary: [Previously Snowbelts] A collection of one-shots all concerning our favorite Spirit Of Winter in all periods of his life. No pairings. (Chapter 2 Summary: Magic is not easy)
1. Day Break Magic

A/N: This was a sudden idea that I thought would be fun to write. It was sort of inspired by a chapter from Sigh In the Breeze (A RoTG fanfic by Chibi Koneko) because of a line about Jack Frost's opinion on the night. I thought it would be fun to turn that around. Anyway, this is a one-shot for now, but this story may become an outlet for ideas that come to mind because wow I can't do chaptered stories. Criticism is appreciated

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He would say he likes the night.

He likes the night because he didn't feel as alone. Perhaps it was paradoxical, and he saw that. When he was more alone than he'd ever be, he felt the least lonely. The irony, as it may be, he always saw. In the corner of his mind, he knew. It made no sense. But when quiet descended upon a small neighborhood, that was always how he felt. Because when most were asleep, they only had their own mind. Lights turned off; no laughter, no screaming, no talking, no chatting. There was just dreams and nightmares and quiet and peace and everyone to themselves. When everyone was alone in their minds like that, how could he say he was lonely? And that thought was what made him feel the least alone.

He likes the night because the snow and frost would glisten in the face of scattered lamp posts, in headlights, and under the moonlight he hated. He thought it was fitting in a way. The snow could cause the deaths or so, so many people but it was beautiful and delicate and not at all suited for death and caused joy to just as many. He often despised his creation, but to see that joy melt like his snowflakes did was so, so much worse. The moonlight was similar, since as cruel as it was to him, he wouldn't deny how it made those snowflakes just that much he couldn't stick around to see and take in the joy on the children's faces in the morning sun's light for some reason, he knew but never said that it was exactly the same feeling he got from watching the snowflakes fall in the moon's.

He likes the night further past the beginning when the quiet occurred, because he seldom slept. In return, he was able to appreciate the strands of gold that would light up the sky, the white that would sometimes mix along with it. Wind liked it, he thought an ounce lovingly. She loved carrying the snowflakes through the bright gold. She loved the fact that she could have free reign during the night. There was no one to stop the wisps and howls through the empty streets. She could carry him wherever he or she pleased. He quite enjoyed it as well, but he flew in silence, as in fear to break the silence that already was along with his illusion of being not so so very alone.

He likes the night because if no snow was due, the night sky lit up with the twinkle of burning gold stars. It didn't happen often, but if he laid himself down and stared past the moon, he would focus on them. They reminded him of those stunning gold strands. When away from the towns and cities, the thought made him laugh down to his belly. He didn't think it was necessarily funny, but he laughed all the same. Only a few times had he seen a shooting star, and not once did he follow the path. When a meteor shower happened however, he was hardly able to contain himself. The only thing that chained him to the ground was never wanting to ruin the magic. Not when he jokingly (but so realistically) made his wishes. He was immortal; of course the stars couldn't grant his wish yet. They had a lot of wishes to go through, and he would always (never wouldn't) have the time in his life to have the wish granted, no matter how long. Wishing on a rainbow didn't work (after a meet with a scolding green man who had actually seen him he saw him), so twice the charm he figured.

He likes the night after the end of evening break of night when the sun falls away. The temperature drops almost suddenly. With every degree that's torn away, he starts to feel warmer. The cold seeps into him and it's like an embrace that he's never had, but it's warm and comforting, and he feels the wind and her hug as well. It creates a chill all the same. Because it's not painfully warm, and it's not the freezing painful cold he is himself. It's gradual, and it's not all at once. It happens even if he's not there to cause it (and secretly he'd like that to happen to his graceful snowflakes as well; because he believes that if they could fall without him, he'd bet they'd be better than the ones he makes even as nice as they are anyway.), and it's a nice change.

He likes the night because if the animals hear the crack of the branch he's walking on, they will almost but not quite see him. Darkness does that to the mind, to the minds on both sides. To the one who can feel the gaze upon him and the one who just wonders what could be making that almost muted stumble and sharp intake (not exhale) of breath. Usually then he can pretend that belief and legends extend to the realm of the animal world. He knows snow does after all. How farfetched could a flying undead invisible fourteen-year-old in body be? (He chokes a bit when he laughs at his own little joke.)

He likes the night because if hail falls and melts in the dark, dark forest there's never anyone who can say it happened. Because hail isn't what he was made for, and he really doesn't like it. But sometimes it did fall anyway, and not always was he able to wait until the night. But when he did, it was so much less painful to feel.

He likes the night because it stops the day break from coming to peel the magic away.

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He likes the night because it's the end that leads into a whole new beginning

He likes the night because if hail trickles from the sky into a shadowed forest, he can see it sparkle and glisten, but nobody else is able to. And when the ice strikes down, it feels a bit gentle somehow. Not always can he stop it, and never would he like it, but at the very least he tolerates it now.

He likes the night because sometimes in the children's dreams he sees snowflakes and frost and skating and snowballs and happiness. If he's lucky, he might be able to see himself, and that's when (even after it happened so many times) he stumbles and lets out a joyous laugh. Belief does that to the mind.

He likes the night because the air (as cold as it is) is warm just like he feels, and Wind still hugs him the same as she always has.

He likes the night because when the shooting stars fall brilliantly, he's able to thank them each three times over before they disappear.

He likes the night because Wind is howling and he's able to shout when they get free reign flying in a peaceful little town.

He likes the night because he doesn't need dreams anymore to imagine his reality. Instead, he helps a certain someone else make the dreams that they both hope come true like his did.

He likes the night because his painstakingly hand-crafted snowflakes make it to the ground and shine with a certain beauty that only he can make.

He likes the night because the beauty shows the most in the moonlight.

He likes the night, because there's just peace and quiet.

He likes the night because everyone's at their loneliest when they are left to their own mind.

He likes the night because outside and in their own minds, they are loved.

He likes the night because when everyone's loved alone in their minds like that, he'll no longer be able to say he's lonely. Not when he has a family that love him in their own, and that he loves back with his.

He likes the night because it's now not just an illusion.

Jack Frost would say with a certainty that he loved the night.


	2. Ice Enchantment

Frankly, Jack Frost was just relieved that impeccable storm herding and good snowflake making was something that he learned in his first ninety years, and not when he learned how many things he could try. The process was trial and error, and the two important jobs he had took up almost every second he had at first. The snowflakes were wonky, and every location that recieved snow was a place he had to visit. It was annoying and exhausting, and he was sure that there was an easier way. Turns out that he had relied on his staff - only a part of him and technically himself - way too much. The wind was really the only one helping him herd clouds, and if he just used his staff for orders and not direct magic, she would go to wherever he desired. And she could multitask. It was still a job he constantly overworked himself in, and the wind pinched his skin annoyed when he did.

Snowflake making wasn't easy, and the white fluff was terrible at first, but one day it just clicked with his magic - sometimes though, he would stop making a bunch and just make a special one by hand, and they were much prettier and large - and they were suddenly true to their reputation snowflakes. They were all unique and somehow he knew that without inspecting. After his discovery, it was very surprising for him to sneeze and find himself blowing snow into anOregon village as a flurry. It worked when he sighed, or just took a deep breath and blew as well. That was one way to spread some snow, he guessed flabbergasted and excited. In the end though, he never completely figured out how all of it worked, but it did.

Discovering he could create hail was unintended and uninvited.

Hoar frost was hard to make, because it wasn't completely in his control. Thankfully, normal frost was so much easier, even if his first couple of years were spent learning how not to let it destroy everything. While it came with snow, his was prettier, and eventually it spread at his every touch with only a simple single command. Humans called it fern frost, and he was giddy just over the fact his creations were noticed for something special. Sometimes, if he was more hopeful than usual, he would draw small pictures - because letters or symbols or characters for some reason felt somewhat wrong and taboo - on glass, and hope that someone would wonder just who did it. If he really really became desperate, he made what would be called a frost flower. Of course, he didn't really expect that much, but it would be nice if someone did despite how unlikely.

In March of his first year, he found that the end and beginning of autumn was entirely his game. The leaves, at the very least were. Since he realized he really was very much the embodiment of winter, he didn't find slowly phasing into his season all that shocking. As much as he hated - despised - his job sometimes, when the start of fall came biannually, the sight of his dazzling frost in the morning and warm colors - instead of white - being spread at his fingertips like fire gave him a small ember of hope every time. Because that showed him that winter wasn't only cold and dark.

In his three first years, he believed that he was able to create all types of ice and snow. When he first visited the South Pole in his fourth year, he was absolutely shocked at how big ice could get and stay in one piece. They were land in themselves as glaciers, and islands as icebergs. Like a safe haven for him and his powers (which he tested above and in the crevices of the glacial ice). And he realized he had zero control over them. Never had he created solid, large ice thicker and deeper than that of his birth lake. Ice took much more effort than snow, if the temperature didn't do it for him.. He never created anything that could disrupt the balance before, and he didn't think he would be able to create something that large anyway. Without becoming immobile for a good entire decade, that is. Not that he would try. As good as keeping nature balanced was, he despised that it forced him to create blizzards; which was something he found out a mere five days from his birth. Every second he wasted not making his scheduled severe snow-storm caused him a sharp pain somewhere in his body. (He still didn't know what parts of his body correlated to what, but it didn't matter because they all hurt excruciatingly the same) Besides, he was smart enough to know that precipitation was important and letting it have reign without him would be disastrous. Worse than his blizzards already were and worse than the lives they took with them. He was also smart enough to know that making a giant ice structure would probably cause more trouble than it was worth, for everyone.

At a century old, he explored just the tip of the iceberg of what he could do with his magic, and boy was it a lot. He was moderately aware of how little he knew, and judging by the other spirits and whatnot he managed to catch a glimpse - and usually nothing more than a polite greeting - of, he was moderately impressed that he managed to only get that far with his magic and somehow be more powerful than a lot of the others. Even if he was totally aware that being the shepherd of a season was not a position to be taken lightly.

Though he never was close enough to salt water to freeze it, it was easier to freeze than river water. The currents weren't as cooperative or slow however. It was fun to try though, and later at 111, he kept a tropical wave frozen for a half hour without touching it. In hindsight, it should have been easier, but that included him staying in heat for a long, long time, and no way in hell would he do that again after a certain scarring incident involving the desert.

Learning how to shape the clouds to make them look like hummingbirds or faces or anything caused him to pass out from exhaustion before he was able to finish. It took 10 years from 113 to 123 - judging by his mental tally - to perfect it and not collapse. And even then, he didn't think it was all that good. But he did think it was passable.

"And it's really probable that perfect faces would cause people to babble and fuss about soul-eating demons in the end." He chuckled after the fact so he didn't have to increase the length of the time-consuming cloud sculpting.

These were all things that he kept in his mind heading into the double human-life expectancy age. At one point in his 140s, after learning a new trick or two, he took an educated guess that the iceberg was at least half visible by now. However, these tricks took years to learn, and every one that he tried took longer than the last. He would swear that his multitasking would cause the ninety years of learning snowflake making and storm herding to turn into a millenium (which he really didn't hope he had, though he didn't want to die per se).

Around 151, he discovered he could enchant snowflakes. He loved it. They could cause all types of emotions, but they were limited to his at moment one. He had learned this from an off morning (because he never practiced at night with nobody awake) that caused his test deer to rampage in a open field, which earned him a swift (accidental, angry) kick to his stomach. Even if said deer couldn't see him. In his confusion, Jack shot another snowflake that caused the deer to mirror his expression, and the poor thing looked almost pained and ran away. He was mortified at the implied abilities that just one magic snowflake could have. If he was in really bad pain, would the enchanted snowflake be able to physically hurt someone? That was the point - even if he almost decided before from his unplanned and despair-ridden/angry blizzards earlier - where he decided to better control his emotions than he already did, so on any given off daytime, he would learn to take it with a smile around anyone who could possibly be hurt by giving anything else. The snowflakes would be enchanted with joy, pride, determination, and sometimes even a bit of hope, and that was it. It took him until 220 to lie to himself without breaking his facade even a tiny bit. (It's not like there was anyone else to lie to.) He fancied himself a trickster.

At 224, he tried to enchant frost images, and came out with little success. With more important things in mind, he forgot about it. Within his experiments, however, determined at first, he managed to get a small (flying?) frost snow leopard to stalk him for a few seconds. He thought it was cute, adorable even, but the enjoyment was quickly sucked out of him when his next five hundred attempts failed in vain. He wasn't a quitter, but he doubted the 3D snow-to-the-touch animals would help anyone, let alone his sanity.

At 237, he found he had a knack for quickly sculpting and making murals with his ice. In his free time, he brought up a half-pillar of ice from out of the snow, and he melted it at different angles with his finger, much like how he watched the mortals do it with their ice picks and other tools. Honestly, he never tried for a long period of time before hand, and in his actual free time, which was either a small break in mid-April or mid-October (he forgot as they looked the same), he actually did. The result was pretty, and he engraved the image to his mind before melting it back into snow. A few days later, he tried it again on a break in the mountainside after melting the frost that had already froze over. He traced his frost into a design with his frozen fingernails, and he quite liked his small finished product of a sweet child he remembered from months back catching a snowflake. Looking at it from an outsider's perspective and then his, he really did think it was an ability he had always had but never fully utilized. Maybe it would cause someone to believe in him one day (yeah, right).

At 261, he started to go a bit insane with the idea of spending his eternity talking to no one but himself. So, as any slightly logical person would conclude, he very much needed someone or something to talk to. Therefore, he took a pointer from the legions of children he observed, and made snow people. The exact way that the children did. They were unrealistic, and quite cute if he would say so himself. He assumed that he could make a very good replica of a human, but he wanted to think he wasn't that far gone, that he would meet someone eventually. With that in his mind, he would set up the temporary people shaped snow wherever he happened to stop in - which was Burgess quite often - and just talk. It was a one-sided awkwardness at first, but the feeling faded. He started to have actual conversations. If Jack imagined that the snow was alive (the wind helped and he was thankful for that), talking, human, - which was not as bad as making the snow hyper realistic, mind you - then he felt as though it wasn't just snow. There was wonder in the difference of blind eyes to seeing ones.

At 291, he just gave up hoping that someone would ever see him, believe in him, and that was the year where his snow people truly became snow people (and his assumption of being able to make it that way proved). And even with half-blind eyes it still felt more real. Later in the year though, the comfort it provided was pushed aside when Jack had a sudden realization and resignation. Why pretend to have conversations with people of snow when he could pretend with people of flesh? He'd pretended to be a part of children's games before, so why not just walk and talk with children in the same way? His decision made everything just a bit better, a bit more fun, a bit happier and a bit more sad.

On his 300th year, he learned of a special, powerful magic he didn't even know he could do. That was also the year in which he mastered the magic he first tried 39 ago, and found the magic he'd been hoping existed for 300.

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A/N: Yes, in my head canon, only Winter and Summer spirits exist. The whole leaf change is a lore that's fairly popular and is also mentioned/shown in the art book. Anyway, I had a lot of fun writing this. Point out any mistakes or whatnot. I'm probably going to post this on AO3. Hope you enjoyed.


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